Subject to Change

Goodbye

2008-05-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

Steven P. Doheny
April 26, 1949 - May 5, 2008

A month or so ago, my dad recited an old saying:
“My father was a farmer so that I could be a doctor so that my children can be artists.”

I can’t think of a more succinctly beautiful expression of my father’s story, his view on life. His story is one of hard work and self-sacrifice. He worked his way up from a humble background to a successful career in a prestigious profession. He was a dreamer. He dreamed the American Dream: if you work hard enough, you will succeed. But there was more to his dreams, because it wasn’t really his own success and fortune he was interested in. He believed in working hard to improve the lives of others. He was able to enjoy the fruits of his labors when he allowed himself the opportunity, but he always seemed to put the needs and desires of everyone else before his own – especially his family. He grew up watching his own father work incredibly long, hard hours building houses to provide for his family. So my dad’s dream was to provide his daughters all the resources we needed to be able to lead the lives we want. He gave us the gift of absolute freedom of choice. He gave us the opportunity to be artists, to be dreamers. He gave us the ability to be creative and intellectual, the luxury of not having to bog ourselves down with everyday concerns.

Dad always supported and encouraged us to follow our own dreams. He especially wanted us to have the chance of trying new things, of doing the unconventional, if that’s what we wanted. He himself was a lover of new experiences and always ready to try something new, be it eating sea urchin at the local sushi bar or trying out a whole new career as a professor at the medical school on Grand Cayman. I know I got my Wanderlust – my desire to travel and see the world – from him. It’s very much due to him that I’ve had the opportunity to see so much of the world, too. He always did whatever it took to make sure nothing stood in my way. When I had to get to Tampa for an interview for a scholarship program to go to Germany, he drove me there, driving long into the night after a full day of work, while I fell asleep in the passenger seat. Just a few weeks ago, when my taking a summer position at Assateague Island was contingent on having a car to get me there, he told me he would take care of everything and invested a small fortune in getting my old Mercedes fixed up. That’s what he always did: took care of everything so I wouldn’t miss out on life’s opportunities.

I’ve always had an innate understanding of what kind of person my dad was, but I’ve also come to really understand him and know him as a person as I entered adulthood. I went and visited him for about two weeks when he was teaching on Grand Cayman and we got to spend time together, just the two of us. That’s when I noticed for the first time something especially remarkable about my dad. He could strike up a conversation with anyone, and make that person feel special. I watched him do it time and again and a realization swept over me: every person on earth has a story to tell, and each story is valuable and interesting. My father knew this intrinsically. He knew exactly how to talk to people, to help them open up and tell their stories, and he knew how to listen and make them know that what they have to say is important. This revelation totally altered my perception not only of my father, but of the world.

See, I’ve always been a lover of a good story – which also comes from my Dad. I have vague memories of him reading The Iliad and The Odyssey to Shannon and I when we were quite young. (I imagine he used abridged children’s versions rather than the epic poems themselves.) I remember begging him for more tales of Ulysses when the book was finished, and in the end he had to make up some new ones for me because I couldn’t accept that the story was over. Thanks to Dad and his talent for talking to people, I now know there’s a limitless supply of good stories out there, and I know how to find them. And thanks to him I understand how valuable this knowledge is, and how precious every single person is.

I’ve come to realize how much alike my dad and I are – we’re both so curious about the world, wanting to explore and experience it, and excited about life and all of its wonders. I’ve also come to realize how much my dad sacrificed his own chances to really experience the world in order to give me those chances. I know with certainty that my dad was proud of me, that he loved me. I know that everyone who knew him knows how much my father cared about them, because he was always able to show it in a million different ways both large and small. I want to continue to make my dad proud, but I know that he was never worried about how I would turn out, because he always encouraged me to make my own decisions, and he was always happy to accept my choices in life and support me no matter what.

It’s still so hard, so impossible, to accept that all of our plans for a shared future will never come to be. And I know that the cliché that “he would want you to move on” holds true in this case, it’s not just a platitude for my family, we can know with certainty that he would want us to go on living our lives and fulfilling our dreams and his dreams. I’m sure he’d prefer to be here with us just as much as we wish he were still here. But it’s thanks to him that we have the great opportunities we do, the freedom to live and enjoy life so much. The way we go on, the way we live is our tribute to him. We need to continue making our stories, and sharing our stories, and sharing his story.

It’s the greatest story I know:
My grandfather was a farmer so that my father could be a doctor, so that I can be an artist.

Venezia, 19 & 20 August

2007-08-30T06:44:00.000-07:00

According to my Lonely Planet guide, "Little matches the beauty, and teeth-grinding frustration, of stunning Venice..." and there cannot be a more apt description.

The idea of Venice has tugged on my Wanderlust for a long time, astounding facts such as her network of 117 islands, some 150 canals and 400 bridges -- not to mention her complete lack of cars -- piquing my interest. Hemingway really did me in, though, with his descriptions of the city's breathtaking beauty, and romantic gondola rides, and the seductive flavor of ruby-red Valpolicella...

So, Venice. La Serenissima...

From the moment of arrival at Santa Lucia train station, she enchanted with her vividness and vitality. For some reason, I had been prepared for a city of cool, polished marble, but Venice is a kaleidoscope of earthy brick and soft pastel pinks, oranges and yellows, all offest by the curious chalkboardy blue-green of her canals. The hordes of tourists and the multitude of souvenir stands peddling innuendo-rich articles of clothing alongside culinary delights like squid-ink pasta and baubles of glittering Venetian glass only add to the bustling liveliness of the city.

While seeing Venice by boat seems the obvious choice, it turns out a gondola ride is ridiculously wallet-breaking, and the city is best discovered on foot. Follow her winding alleys and you will most certainly discover achingly beautiful nooks and crannies, hidden plazas, crumbling walls and statuary, ornate wrought-iron railings on canal bridges, and the inevitable dead-end.

Wandering our way to the famous Piazza San Marco, we stumbled upon a wedding party winding their way through the streets, the radiant bride and groom, hand-in-hand, surrounded by elegantly clad, laughing family and friends. As they passed, onlookers joined the contagious festivities, applauding and cheering the beaming new couple. At the tail-end of the party, an enthusiastic older middle-aged gentleman sang boisterously in a lovely Italian tenor, gesticulating broadly with his tuxedo-clad arms. His tune was occasionally joined by his fellows, and even other passers-by, and we could only assume he was the proud father of the bride, pouring out his joy at the occasion.

The narrow streets opened out to the extraordinary expanse of the Piazza San Marco, lined with long galleries of fantastic Venetian architecture and crowned with the San Marco Basilica. The most astonishing sight, however, was the fact that the piazza itself was covered not only by tourists, but by pigeons. To say there were millions of them would not be an exaggeration. It was pure Hitchcockian nightmare. Apparently one of the trademark activities at the piazza is to buy pigeon food for a euro a bag. People of all ages and walks of life were engaged in the activity, some appearing to be soulfully spiritual as they held out their arms for the greedy, disease-riddled vermin to perch upon.

The wedding party also made its way onto the piazza, and the newlyweds partook of the pigeon-feeding ritual, too. Perhaps it brings good luck? This idea did not make me any more inclined to invest my hard-earned money in increasing the pigeon population of Venice.

Two days flew by remarkably quickly, and we saturated ourselves with the city, the magnificent sights, the constant cacaphony of voices, chattering and singing, laughing, in a mixed whirl of languages. The tastes: the smoothness of Valpolicella, the cold, refreshing sweetness of Limoncello... and of course an obscene amount of delicious, creamy gelato. Two days was enough to feel the pulse of the city, to get an impression... and to leave before frustration reared its ugly head.

Evening in Pécs, 25 July

2007-08-13T04:51:00.000-07:00

Rough, time-worn and sun-warmed timbers and gray weathered stone form the bastion that protected the city for centuries and now hosts an incongruously festive atmosphere of various vendors of spirits and snacks.

The raised bridge leading to the bastion's portal overlooks an open-air stage in what was once likely a moat, where a band of indeterminate nationality warms up for a show, blending flute, viollin, guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and vocalists singing strains of perfectly ethereal Irish folk before breaking back into their own incomprehensible tongue (Hungarian? And... French?) to comment on levels. A nondescript middle-aged guy in nondescript T-shirt and shorts tests out his Irish step-dancing shoes, tapping and kicking sporadically in time with the warm-up music.

I lean against the low wall of the bridge, shifting my weight against the rough stone that digs into my palms, waiting for the show to begin. Washed-out blue sky harbours picturesque fluffy white clouds as the sun casts its final glowing rays on red-tiled roofs, bathing everything in that perfect golden light of dusk as it sinks its way behind the green hills of Pécs.

Those hills invite further investigation. We enjoy the decidedly non-spectacular but pleasant performance of the Hungarian Irish folk band as they play and step dance their way through a set of Irish folk standards interspersed with pop and The Cranberries. The juxtaposition of their between-number monologues in Hungarian with their perfect imitation of Irish folk accents while singing is beguilingly puzzling.

And then the hills beckon and we set off in the direction of a distant TV tower high above the city. Rounding the corner, the spires of the cathedral come into view, lit spectacularly in the fading sunlight. I snap impatient photos, eager to climb and reach a vista that will offer a complete sunset panorama.

The narrow street is lined with the type of houses common to hillsides with views, modern and impressive. And selfishly blocking strolling pedestrians from enjoying the view they pay premium prices to closet away in their backyards.

A sign indicates the elusive TV tower can be reached via an even narrower, steeper street cobbled with large, uneven stones, and we continue on in the atmosphere of calming, falling dusk. Snatches of uncomplicated local life add interest to the journey, families unloading groceries, or having murmured conversations on porches. Then we spot a tree laden with deep purple plums, situated invitingly on the street side of a fence surrounding a steep property flanking a house at some disance above it. The plums are sweet and juicy and irresistable and we revert to our anthropoid nature, foraging happily.

A family group makes their way slowly up the hill in our direction, merrily pantomiming the strain of the steep climb and chattering happily with each other. They turn in at the house above our plum tree, obviously the residents here, but just smile and lob a few phrases of Hungarian I don't recognize in our direction as they hike up to their house, clearly unperturbed at our scavenging of their tree. I try to convey my gratitude and enjoyment of their plums, though no appropriate Hungarian phrases enter my brain and I have to resort to grinning broadly.

A fluffy gray cat slinks like a wisp of smoke in our direction, followed by the smiling young matriarch of the family. She seems to be attempting to recover the cat and return it to the house, so I momentarily abandon my plum harvest and join in on heading off the cat so she is able to scoop it up into her arms. She strikes up a very one-sided conversation with me, as I shrug my helpless lack of knowledge of her language. She grins and laughs, shrugging her own lack of English, so we content ourselves with stroking the velvety soft, thick fur of the somewhat perturbed cat while Arlo sagely impresses with his knowledge of the Hungarian word for cat. (cica = tseetsa) Our friendly hostess wanders her way back up to the house as we return to our own steep upward climb.

A paved sidewalk jags off to the right into a tree-filled area that seems more appealing than the continuing suburbia-lined cobbled street, and we climb in this park-like area, still hoping it will open out to present the much-awaited vista of Pécs. But alas, it is not to be -- any possible view is blocked by houses. The hilly forest holds its own charms and beckons further exploration, but the sun has disappeared and the darkness is wrapping its tendrils ever more thickly around the landscape. I consider awaiting the advent of the moon and stars from the vantage point of some inviting star-gazing rocks on the hillside, but the inadvisability of navigating strange streets in a strange city by moon and starlight sinks in and we decide to make our way back down the hill before complete darkness sets in. Our meandering route takes us down a dirt and gravel road through construction sites and into the backyard of an apparently unoccupied house, where we finally get a decent panorama of the city below, though too dark for opportune photos.

Winding our way back into the city, we return to the bastion where the festival is continuing even more full-swing. A Colombian band has the crowd in its rhythmic sway, and I recognize the charismatically cute lead singer and the dark-haired enchantress who sings back-up and mesmerizes with her amazing full-bodied gyrations from the tail-end of their show we had caught two nights(?) previously on the chain bridge in Budapest.

And I am back full circle on the same rough-hewn bridge wall over the ancient moat, enthralled in the sensual pleasures of the intensely rhythmic music provided by a three-man percussion section, and an incredibly amazing funky bass player who would give Flea and Les Claypool a run for their money. And the lovely Claudia, bewitching the audience with her voluptuous vivacity, and the lead singer with his eager, face-splitting grin and soulful voice... losing myself to the beauty and energy and foreignness of the night.

Budapest, 22-24 July

2007-08-13T02:08:00.000-07:00

There's something vaguely enigmatic about Budapest, a city claiming over a thousand years of distinctly Hungarian civilization, yet having fallen time and again under the opressive thumbs of various other dynasties: the Ottomans, the Austrians, the Soviets.

Perhaps the best way to understand Budapest is to follow the Danube as it churns muddily on its meandering route, linking the two great capitals of the faded Austro-Hungarian empire.

Vienna flaunts her status as the favoured sister, the one who was always lavished with attention and pretty baubles. Vienna glitters as the prized jewel of culture and marbled grandeur, reflecting the pomposity of the imperial Hapsburg past. Today her monuments gleam with a pristine, brilliance, and she is also awash in the sleek trappings of upper class modernity, shining pedestrian malls of chrome and glass, showcasing expensive designer tastes. Her charming gardens are perfectly manicured and painstakingly well-coiffed.

The train from Vienna to Budapest more or less tracks the lazy route of the Danube, winding east through well-apportioned suburbs and then ridiculously charming Austrian villages and countryside of quaint farms and fields and lustrous green forests, all lining the gently swelling, rolling hills.

By the time thepassport checkers board the train, their evidence of border crossing seems incidental, because the actual border is palpable. The landscape becomes flatter, and gives off a general aura of negligence. Things seem unkempt, dusty. The villages seem a vaguely distored refection of their counterparts over the border, harboring the occasional crumbling wreck in their midst.

The Danube chugs along, now paralleling the train, now a few bends away beyond the scrubby trees, casting its swathe of liquid light in the bleak dustiness. Then the sort of desolate industrial outbuildings that signal the outer limits of a big city, and suddenly Budapest rises up, shrouded in her veil of bleak mystery.

That she always stood in shadow of her favoured sister is evident. She was never quite as sophistcated or naturally gorgeous, perhaps she was even considered a bit homely, a wall flower at the ball, though there is also the impression she cleans up surprisingly well and could be a beauty in her own right.

Perhaps sensing this, the Hapsburgs built the great Buda palace to ornament one of the great hills on the western bank of the Danube and, of course, to showcase their own glory. Ornamental gates with the powerful Hapsburg eagle cast a forbidding shadow down on the river below. Yet the Austrian imperials never pulled themselves away from the spell of Vienna, and never occupied their palace in Buda save for the occasional state visit.

Yet for all of the neglect she suffered at the hands of her Austrian rulers, Budapest was always adored by her own. They remain fiercely loyal, proud and only too happy to boast of the many attractions of their city. They evidence their pride with great monuments such as the Heroes' Square, where likenesses of great kings and leaders of the past gaze scornfully down at visitors ignorant of their roles in the history of their beloved folk.

In the 1890s the people of Budapest built their own showcase palace in a park in the eastern side of the city to commemorate 1000 years of Hungarian culture, and they built the iconic Fisherman's Bastion to share the Buda Castle hill, a beautiful structure of white stone arches and turrets resting on remnants of the original city wall.

The Bastion complements the gorgeous neo-Gothic Matthias Church, which mirrors elements of Vienna's own Stephansdom, such as the mosaic-tiled roof.

But whereas Stephansdom is nestled in the heart of Vienna, hidden away in a ring of other structures, the Matthias Church rises up over the Danube in magnificent spires of glory.

Observing the way the Danube so fetchingly bisects Budapest, one imagines that the spirit of the river resides here, rather than in the more stately and formal capital to the west. The Danube seems to flow more freely in Budapest and flit about more willingly, capturing and reflecting the Budapest skyline by day and adding her twinkiling lights to those of the stars at night.

Budapest may have been second rate for those who preferred to dictate from afar, but those who took the time to get to know her sensed her hidden magic. It's still there today, just below the surface, beyond the guide book packaged sights and multi-lingual bus tours, waiting to be recognized by the traveler willing to look deeper, willing to wander her streets and gaze down at her from her hilly heights, willing to meet her gaze, reflected in the sweep of the mighty, loving Danube.

(Finally) wrapping up Portugal...

2007-07-14T05:08:00.000-07:00

Belem, June 3
Sintra, June 4

Belem lies like a gleaming jewel in the west of Lisbon. The shining white of ancient buildings and the lush green of parks complement the azure background of the Tejo River. Belem played an important historical role as the port of embarkation for the Portuguese explorers, and today it attracts modern explorers as well.
Perhaps the most spectacular sight in Belem is the Mosteiro dos Jeronimos, an imposingly beautiful piece of Manueline architecture harking back to 1496.

The monastery's cathedral has enough Gothic arches to rival any of the other famous cathedrals in Europe, but it can additionally boast of being the final resting place of explorer Vasco de Gama.

The monastery also has an entire room decorated with yellow and blue azulejos, hand-painted tile paintings. Most impressive of all is its courtyard, festooned with stunningly intricate carved stone arches and pillars.

Across the street from the monastery, a great monument rises up over the Tejo, celebrating Portuguese exploration. At the base of the monument is a mural of inlaid stone and tile depicting a map of the world.

The monument bears the same sense of heroic idealism shared by such objects world over, but with this one there is a sense that it is actually deserved. Honoring forebears who indulged their curiousity about the world around them and ventured out into the unknown seems much more noble than honoring those who "courageously" slaughtered the enemies of their nation in war. In addition, it is located near the exact spot where the depicted explorers set out on their adventures. Standing by the stone figures you feel an inclination to follow their gazes out over the Tejo, shading your eyes against the blazing sun to follow the course of the river to where it meets the endless possibilities of the Atlantic.

From the monument you can also gaze down the river at the real point of embarkation, the Torre de Belem, an island fortress of majestic turrets, vaulted ceilings and ornate arches. It rises out over the river like something out of a fairy tale, or an idealized vision of history. Like the monastery, it is a masterpiece of Manueline architecture, but it had a practical defensive purpose when built between 1515 and 1521.

Seemingly endless narrow, winding spiral staircases beckoned the way to lofty heights and spectacular views over the river from the top terrace of the tower, 35 meters high.
After clambering all over the tower under the relentlessly blazing sun, we headed off for a break, to test the widely-reported belief that the custard pastries of Belem, pasteis de Belem, are the best in all of Lisbon. (They are.) We took our snack to a riverside park where there just happened to be some kind of folk festival. We were surrounded by natives in traditional costume, young and old. On a stage at the front of the open green musicians played and groups performed folk dances. The music seemed to feature high, shrill female voices in a nasal tone, akin to ululations classicly associated with the Arabic-speaking world. It was peculiar but enjoyable in the quaint, comforting way of folk traditions.

We next headed to the Parque das Nacoes in the eastern region of Lisbon, a thoroughly modern area constructed for the '98 World Expo. In stark contrast to the classical historicalness of Belem, this area is replete with a shoppng mall, restaurants and modern glass-and-steel architecture. Yet somehow it was still a pleasant place to watch the sun set over the Tejo and to people watch, trying to get a feel for the modern Portuguese. It is an ecclectic mix that promenades along this flower-filled riverside park, from the packs of teenagers laughing uproariously to secure their pecking orders, to couples obliviously lost in their own romantic fantasies, to beaming mothers pushing strollers, to the leather-clad Hell's Angels, apparently in town for some kind of international convention.

Back in the center of the city, we wandered the narrow alleys of Chiado to hear some fado, the traditional ballad-style music of Portugal. While the restauranteurs plied us with Vinho Verde (green wine) and amazingly delicious sheep's milk cheese, throughout the night several different singers took the "stage" (a tiny space cleared for them among the tables). How to describe fado? It is acoustic, a single singer backed up by only a guitar and a 12-string Portuguese guitar. The singer really makes the genre, though. Fado means "fate" in Portuguese, and the music is tragically soulful, longing, nostalgic. It is simply captivating. A fado singer belts out a song in a way that entiwines you in not only the sound, but also the mood. It is music meant to be sung in small, smoky, candlelit places, with the smoky, haunting melody lingering in the air. It is primal music, music of the torturous, inescapable emotional maelstrom of the human experience. Fado is also about love, but not love as we like it to be in pop music, vapidly beautiful. No, fado speaks of love - and life - as it really is: complex, confusing, terrible, tragic.... and worthwhile. Worth everything, worth clinging to in a tooth-and-claw struggling-for-survival kind of way. An evening of fado is dreamlike, cathartic, mysteriously life-affirming.

*******

Sintra lies only a 45-minute train ride from Lisbon but seems like it belongs to another world. It is a charming town with a meandering network of shady tree-filled parks and grand palaces nesled in the hilly countryside. It is also being discovered by the masses and its hilly streets are blooming with kitschy tourist shops, but it is only a small blemish on the mystique of the place.
Historically the country playground of the royalty, Sintra boasts a number of palaces, some more accessible than others. While the famous Castelo dos Mouros perches high above the city (a very steep 3-km trek), the Palacio Nacional de Sintra is right at the center of town, dominating the skyline with its unique twin chimneys. The palace mixes the Manueline Gothic architecture with Moorish influences for an amazing array of carved stone archways, winding towers and hand-painted tiles.

The amount of charm possessed by this quiet hillside village is almost ridiculous. Wandering its streets, a traveler encounters photogenic vista after photogenic vista, in handpainted tile murals, interestingly ornate building architecture, tropical gardens, and views stretching out across red-tiled rooftops.

A roadside tiled fountain beckoned to thirsty travelers and proved an apparent favorite haunt of locals, as one guy pulled up with a car-trunk filled with plastic containers that he proceeded to fill from the fountain, one after the other, a task that he was still occupied with when we passed by a second time hours later.

Wandering along in a near-dream state induced by the hazy picturesqueness of the town and the ever-present sunny heat, we came, accidentally, upon a most amazing place: the Quinta da Regaleira. Long a country estate of various nobility, it was purchased in the early 20th century by a wealthy visionary, António Augusto de Carvalho Monteiro, who, with the help of a gifted architect, Luigi Manini, transformed the place into a garden of wonders. Monteiro, a doctor by trade, was really a philosopher and mystic by nature who believed in alchemy and mythology and all kinds of mysteries. According to the sketchily-translated brochure from the Quinta de Regaleira (now a UNESCO World Heritage Site), Monteiro envisioned his property as a sort of Garden of Eden. "The paradise is materialised in coexistence with the inferious - a Dantesque subterranean world - in which the neophyte would be guided by the Ariadne thread of Initiation. A full sensorial and environment-conditioned approach has been devised to represent and impart the experience of the Initiation quest... through a symbolic garden where one may feel the Harmony of the Spheres and scrutinize the alignment of an ascent of consciousness."

Monteiro's mansion is now a museum dedicated to explaining the symbolism of the estate's many chapels, towers, gazebos, grottoes, statues and other features. The architectural blueprints for every feature are displayed in the mansion, their precision and attention to detail simply mind-boggling.

Towers and turrets seem to be generally beloved in Portugal, a staple feature of all architectural masterpieces, and Monteiro took this love of towers to an extreme level, with turreted features all over his garden. On the mansion he had his own Alchemist's Tower, which he gaurded under lock and key from unwelcome guests while he resided there. Today visitors can tromp up and down the tower's spiral staircase as much as they want. The view is, of course, spectacular.

But did Monteiro realize his vision of a spiritual landscape that initiates visitors to a new plane of consciousness? The place is certainly imbued with an atmosphere of surreality. We traipsed through the garden, occasionally following the map in the brochure but more or less just wandering and marvelling at it all. It was a place where you could spend hours and still not see everything, around every corner there seemed to be something new and even more fantastic. I wanted to explore the labyrinthine network of caves and grottoes but we didn't have any source of light, and the darkness, once we had traveled a few feet in, was amazingly, petrifyingly thick and impenetrable. In conrast to the brightness of the sun outside, entering the grotto was like running into a brick wall.
Eventually we came upon the Initiate's Well, a feature I had noticed on the map and felt a growing curiousity about. It turned out to be, in fact, a well, but a well with a spiraling staircase leading down its sides to a bottom that seemed incredibly far away. We dared each other to go down those stairs, joking at first, but then... it became more and more appealing. I jested that I needed to build up courage, so we rested on some convenient nearby benches, eating sandwiches we had brought along.

Then we descended down into the well, spiraling ever deeper, ever earth-ward. The sunlight , so bright at the surface, quickly lost power, and the way became increasingly darker, and wetter. Water seeped from the walls and trickled down the narrow stone steps. I found myself with one hand on the slick wall beside me for guidance, descending slowly in near-complete darkness. And then, sooner than expected, we were at the bottom. We stepped out into the middle of the well, on a tiled mosiac that seemed to represent compass points, and looked up at the perfect circle of light above. There was a certain eeriness, yes, spirituality, in the symbolic crossing from light, to dark, to light.

But before I could really focus on this mysterious feeling, meditate upon the experience, there were voices and heavy foot treads of a larger group of tourists, loudly making their way down into the well, and the mood was broken. That was the only fault of the Quinta de Regaleira, really; too many people are interested in this intriguing place, and it doesn't give up its secrets to the masses.

Augartenfest

2007-07-01T04:53:00.000-07:00

The sun shines gently in a pristine blue sky, lending its blessing to a weekend summer festival in a beloved city park.
Crowds browse among flea market stalls and food vendors, enjoying the refreshing sweetness of cold beer. Children frolic and shriek in excitement as they test out the playground equipment, somehow rendered special by the festivities taking place around it. The smell of grilled meat hangs in the air, much to the salivary anticipation of various dogs trotting along with panting grins beside their owners.

Music rings out from several stages dotting the park. One blares contemporary pop as preteen dance troupes strut their stuff on stage before the adoring smiles of their parents.

One stage features the kind of band that is ubiquitous at outdoor summer festivals: a group of local musicians just talented enough to provide danceable covers of favorite hits. They stick mostly to the Schlager genre, German-langauge pop from years gone by, laughable yet popular with young and old alike.
On a makeshift dance platform of wooden decking next to the stage, a lone middle-aged woman in a bright red T-shirt twirls to the music in waltz tempo, her arms around an imaginary partner. The expression on her face, elongated and softly rounded by Down's Syndrome, is one of pure joy. The band plays a faster number and she enthusiastically be-bops from side to side, concentrating raptly on the band and the music.
An occasional couple joins her on the dance platform, sticking out a number or two before retiring back to the wooden tables and benches of the beer garden, but she dauntlessly continues her solo enjoyment of the music.
Her performance instills in me a sense of admiration and envy, a longing to be so free from self-consciousness, to be able to surrender myself so completely to the simple pleasure of a good beat on a beautiful day.

But the band finishes their last number and I slowly wander away, blending yet apart from the crowd as I make my lonely way home.

Twitterpating

2007-06-23T03:44:00.000-07:00

Not having been raised in a city
they still give me pause,
a sense of prudish irritation:
A flurry of fluttering feathers
then soft whispery sighs and insistent cooing moans.
Pigeons fornicating on my balcony.

Lisbon, June 1 +2

2007-06-16T04:03:00.000-07:00

The day of arrival was about getting bearings, finding the hotel we had booked, etc. Lisbon has an admirable public transport system with an Aerobus, a bus that makes a direct route from the outskirting airport to the center of town, with a few stops at major points along the way. As it turned out, we lucked out on hotel location -- it was right across the street from the Campo Pequeno, the bullfighting arena, and thus easy to find and with easy access to public transport. Hemmingway-induced curiousity battled with my animal rights/vegetarian mindset, but the habit of 13 years won out, and the Campo Pequeno did not get a closer look.

After perusing the hotel, we bussed downtown, intending to go to the Praco de Comercio, a main square on the Tejo River. The bus system quickly presented a major failing, however -- once on a bus, there is no indication of route whatsoever and a passenger has to push a button to indicate a desire to get off at the next stop. That there was an established route I had no doubt, but how to know where we were and where to get off? It turned out the free city map I had picked up at the airport handily showed a map of hte metro system and indicated metro stops on the map itself, but bus routes and stops were not indicated. Deeply embroiled in comparing the streets the bus navigated with those on the map, I was pleasantly surprised when the smartly dressed woman across the way asked in perfect English if she could help. It was the first of many times that the Portuguese proved themselves to be a friendly and helpful people, which came as a slight surprise as some Austrian friends had warned us that the Portuguese were "komisch" (strange).

It turned out we disembarked at the same stop as our good samaritan, who also indicated the direction to the Praca de Comercia before she elegantly clacked away in her pale green suit and heels, showing a blatant disregard for traffic as she crossed the street on her own whim, a trait obviously shared by all residents of Lisbon. Whereas we tourists maneuvered our way to crosswalks and waited patiently for the signal to cross, natives, it seemed, couldn't be bothered, even by the indignant horn-blowing of the traffic forced to brake for them.

The Praca de Comercio was decked out with a special display, a "Tree Parade" of model trees painstakingly and lovingly decorated by school classes to raise awareness of deforestation and global warming and other environmental issues.

The imposing arch of Augustus leads into the Chiado, a carefully laid-out grid of streets that comprise Lisbon's main commercial district. It is an area of bustling activity, and a somewhat chaotic blend of tourist traps and chain stores like H&M frequented by locals. Vendors hawk canvases of painted cityscapes, handbags, scarves, jewellry, and only slightly more subtly, illicit substances. The first time we were approached by an average-seeming guy proferring "ganja" in broad daylight it was somewhat of a shock, but by the fifth time or so, it receded into the backdrop of commercial banter.

In the evening there was a stoll along the Tejo River and dinner at a slightly overpriced cervejaria, where I enjoyed a plate of decent shrimp cocktail and a delicious house-brewed dark beer. The chilly breeze and travel-induced exhaustion made for an early night.

For day two an excursion to the Moorish-influenced Alfama neighborhood and a hike up to the hilltop fortress Castelo de Sao Jorge were planned. The trek up to the Castello wound its way through the quaint narrow alleys of Alfama, characterized by tile-covered buildings and criss-crossed by lines of laundry drying in the sun.

The Castelo itself was a marvel of old stone masonry, offering dizzying views of the city from its terraced gardens and multiple towers, though a disappointing lack of battery charge in my camera limited the photo opportunities. The castle also boasted a seemingly complete lack of busybodies to herd and babysit tourists. Visitors were allowed to clamber all over the Castelo, up and down narrow, crumbling stone stairways without handrails and along lofty passageways whose sidewalls only reached a height of mid-calf. I could only imagine the potential lawsuits were it located in the good-old USA, but apparently Portugal still exists in a state of blissful non-litigiousness.

The relentless beaming of the sun and the apparent discrepencies between my guide book maps and the actual layout of Alfama lead to a late-afernoon fatigue that almost had us packing it in before catching a glimpse of another famous Alsama sight, the Casa dos Bicos, a building with an unusual facade of pointy stones. It looked like jagged teeth of weathered concrete.

On the way home we planned a stop at a festival we had seen in the city's largest downtown park -- a festival whose purpose and contents we were ignorant of until we arrived and I actually read and assimilated the words emblazoned on dozens of bright pink banners: Fiesta de Livre. A book fair. A HUGE book fair, with booths 2 or three deep lining the sidewalk the entire length of the park. We walked the whole circuit, me flitting hopefully from booth to booth of icredibly reasonably priced books, but after an hour or so of dedicated searching, I came to the reluctant conclusion that there was not a single book I wanted. They were, for the most part, in Portuguese, a language of which my knowledge is depressingly low, but I wasn't entirely letting that stop me -- I hoped to find a book that would be the more interesting for being in a language I can't read, for example, a book of knitting patterns. But no such luck. This will go down in history as a very sad day -- surrounded by hundreds of thousands of books, I left empty-handed.

We hungrily searched the neighborhood of our hotel for an eatery, finding a disappointing lack of sustenance. Finally we came across a restaurant that advertised take-out in its window, a compelling draw after a long day afoot, bringing to mind an image of a lazy dinner in bed. Once entered, however, the restaurant's ability to provide take-out seemed diminished as there didn't seem to be anything pre-prepared, like sandwhich ingredients or the like. It turned out to specialize in grilled entrees and was some kind of Portuguese chain. The staff were friendly and laughed a lot as they attempted to explain the all-Portuguese menu in borderline passable English. They convinced us of what we wanted to order and ushered us upstairs where there was a big-screen TV broadcasting the Portugal-Belguim soccer game. We happily watched away over caparinhas, (which, due to the Brazil connection, were fabulous), the staff finding excuses to hang around upstairs and chat with us while eyeing the game. Happily, Portugal won, and the food was delicious -- and the manager of the place insisted on giving us a plate of some kind of grilled beef for free, which T summarily enjoyed.

Lisbon, June 1-6

2007-06-10T04:29:00.000-07:00

The city is endowed with an undefinable uniqueness -- not-quite-Spanish, not-quite-Mediterranean -- Old World charm lagging behind the earlier democratized Western European powers. The sun casts an atmosphere of sluggish haziness, lends a golden cast to the cerulean swathes of sky and the Tejo River.

Grand Renaissance architecture glitters with embellishments of hand-painted Moorish tiles. This type of thoughtfully-created beauty often seems thoughtlessly disregarded, a taken-for-granted part of the backdrop, painstakingly designed tiles flaking their enamel and losing themselves behind layers of pasted paper posters. They wait to be discovered by eager, awed tourists exclaiming over the multitude of patterns and colors to be found.

Lisbon is not a place to be in a hurry. Umbrellaed sidewalk cafes offer a refuge for lingering over coffees and pasteis de nata, thick custard pastries. The lethargy-inducing heat dictates a relaxed attitude toward commerce, stores seeming to keep their own hours, opening late in the morning.

With gentle persistence, the atmosphere entwines and ensnares the visitor, beckoning like a sultry, languid seductress, "Come stay awhile..."

You call this a soccer riot?!

2007-06-10T02:35:00.000-07:00

The view from my balcony at about 5 p.m. yesterday was somewhat shocking: a van full of police donning riot gear, just outside my front door.

Apparently, the evening's usual local soccer game was to be a bit unusual. I'm still not entirely sure which teams were actually playing, though one was certainly the second-string players for Graz's beloved SK Sturm. They play here pretty frequently, though the real, first-string team plays at a much more grandiose stadium. The opposition wore blue, and they had a very adamant cheering section of about two-dozen young men who, starting an hour before the game, kept up a constant not-so-dull roar of cheering, jeering, chanting, singing and setting off firecrackers in the stands. The riot police took the liberty of front-row seats for the action.

Needless to say, the home team won the game, which left the boys in blue to seek creative ways to vent their frustration... tearing down a metal barricade seperating their section of the stands from that of the home crowd.

I really couldn't believe my eyes as I watched the cops go after the fans with their billy clubs. They even knocked down two guys and later dragged them out of the stands in handcuffs.

On the other side of the stadium. a line of riot cops stood gaurd to prevent the home team fans from rushing the field.

The fans didn't take well to this -- they threw rocks.

They also fgured out how to turn on the sprinklers, but I missed the photo opp because a security guard with a German shepherd in tow was quick to rush over and put a stop to it.

The chaos lasted for an hour or so after the game had ended, with the fans continuously trying to find a way around the cops to go at each other's throats. It's all part of European soccer culture, but to me it is baffling. This is the first time I have seen this type of violence and police brutality in person. Usually it's just the stuff of Fox News reports, not happening in my backyard. I don't understand how otherwise mild-mannered Austrians get so riled up about soccer that they turn to violence, but it is a well-known fact that after every real SK Sturm game there is a fight somewhere in Graz -- the fans arrange a post-game meeting point in advance so they can go at each other without police interference. This event was minor compared to what goes on in conjunction with a real, professional game, but to me it was still shocking and thrilling in a voyeuristic way. I was only too glad that I was viewing it from the safety of my balcony, though, rather than in the thick of things. It didn't seem like any "innocents" were involved in any skirmishes, but i still wouldn't have wanted to be down there.

Backyard Fun

2007-05-28T03:45:00.000-07:00

Living on the sixth/seventh floor of an apartment building near the middle of the city of Graz, technically I have no backyard. Instead, I have this.

A public soccer field. It used to be home to the city's team, SK Sturm, but they relocated to a larger stadium a little further from the city center a few years ago. This field is now home to amateur games for both kids and adults. Now that the weather is nice, on any given night we can go out on the balcony and watch a game.

Aside from the fact that I am not really that much of a soccer fan, there is a downside to this: cheering crowds. It can be quite loud. Add to that the PA system on which a playlist of about 3 songs is constantly blared, on repeat mode, and if you don't keep your sense of humor about you, it can be a bit trying.

Just beyond the field is the Grazer Messe, the city fairgrounds. Recently, a traveling performance, "Afrika, Afrika!" has moved in and set up a colorful tent city just visible beyond the trees at the far end of the soccer field.

The show is apparently an African version of Cirque du Soleil, replete with music, drumming, dancing and acrobatics. It is extremely popular, and its tour has therefore been extended so that it will be gracing the neighborhood until July 7. I intend to go at some point, but plan to memorize the songs and lineup before I go, so I can better appreciate seeing the visual accompaniment to the music that I can hear quite clearly from my balcony every night. It is a nice addition to the usual screaming soccer fans and the Scissor Sisters' "I don't feel like dancing."

Last night the neighborhood auditory ambience reached a new level of provocation as the beer garden adjoining the soccer field invited a live musical act, "Sunrise," a duo of middle-aged tone-deaf Austrian men who slaughtered their way through 5 sets of covers.

We were awed by their prowess with a synthesizer, which jauntily continued blaring their background music despite the keyboard stylings of the guy in black. Even more impressive was the karaoke-esque performance of the guy in white, who artlessly blundered through such favorite standards as "Proud Mary," cracking the high notes and missing modulations right and left, knocking aside microphone stands in his ever-increasing level of intoxication. Best of all was when the duo joined forces in gut-wrenching, ear-splitting duets, in which they both seemed content to pick their own key and stick with it to the bitter end.

The crowd cheered, danced and sang along, and consumed copious quantities of alcohol. Alas, I -- stupidly -- did not join in, stubbornly of the belief that no amount of alcohol could ever make it okay, much less enjoyable.

And yet there was something endearing about it all, when the guys cracked corny jokes in heavy dialect between their musical abortions. I suppose it is a case of tolerating something in a foreign culture that one would never tolerate in her own.

Christ's trip to heaven

2007-05-18T02:40:00.000-07:00

It's yet another holiday in Austria: Christi HImmelfahrt, Ascension Day. It seems that every day important to the Catholic church is celebrated in this country as a legal, nationwide holiday. And the whole country shuts down -- all businesses except a handful of enterprising restaurants are closed. Since I had the day off, we planned to visit a pub-esque restaurant we've only been to once due to its rather inconvenient location at quite a distance from our apartment with no straightforward public transport linkages. We set out on our journey, and naturally, upon arrival half an hour later or so, found out the place was closed. Lesson learned: we were supposed to be in church, celebrating Christ's trip to heaven, rather than enjoying ourselves in a nice beer pub. We hit up a local pizza chain instead, which, as it caters to the student communtiy, is nearly always open during the uni semesters.

Then we had the bright idea of trying to acquire some alcoholic refreshement to take back home with us, our purpose being to hole up for the rest of the day as it was a particularly rainy and cold one. Considering the day's holiday status, this was easier said than done, as all grocery stores were closed, but we had hope that the branch of the local supermarket chain, Spar, located at the train station would be open. It is the only grocery store in the city that stays open until the ungodly hour of 9 p.m. and the only one that is open on Sundays (yep, all stores are closed on Sundays, too). So we bussed down to the train station and found that this Spar was indeed open, and also, of course, packed. Ridiculously so. It's not a large place to begin with, definitely not constructed to hold hundreds of people doing their desperate holiday shopping. It's also poorly laid out, with the cash registers off of a central aisle that accesses 5 aisles of merchandise, so tyring to wade through the crowds to first find one's purchases and then find a place in a line in the midst of people trying to find their purchases and find a line was nothing short of a disaster. A quick trip to pick up a couple drinks and some milk for next morning's coffee took at least 20 painful minutes of in-store time plus about 45 minutes of public transport travel.

I'm of two minds on this whole store closure business. After a year and a half of life in this country, I am more or less used to it -- you just learn to plan ahead and stock up on whatever you may find yourself needing on Sundays or holidays. Sometimes it is inconvenient, like when you have been too busy to get to the grocery store before a holiday, or somehow weren't aware a holiday was approaching (remarkably easy to do, trust me). What is more interesting to me are the opinions and reactions of the Austrians themselves. Whenever the issue comes up, they staunchly defend store closures on Sundays and holidays, because "everyone needs a day off," including cashiers and shop keepers. (incidentally, the restaurants that are open on Sundays and holidays make up for it by having their "Ruhetag" (day of rest) on some other normal weekday -- usually Monday or Tuesday). This is a political issue, because it is actually illegal for stores to be open on Sundays or holidays unless they somehow have special dispensation, like the train station Spar. Often there are governmental discussions about changing this law, or allowing stores to be open later -- most have to close by 7:30 at the latest -- but people always come back to their argument that it is important to have a day off. When I tell my students or colleagues about 24-hour stores in the U.S. they are often shocked, can't believe that anyone would want to shop late at night, much less work such hours. They express sympathies for such workers, victims of wanton American consumerism. And yet, when the opportunity is there, they are happy to take advantage of it, as evidenced by the crowd at the train station Spar yesterday. It's only a matter of time, really, before capitalism wins out and stores demand ot be able to stay open on Sundays and holidays to take advantage of the opportunity to earn more revenue. I'm sure that Spar did a week's worth of normal business, if not more, by being the only store in town open yesterday.

In a way, it's a shame -- I find the way things are now charming. There's something quaintly nice about the idea of everyone in the family having a holiday on the same random Thursday and being, in a way, forced to spend the day at a leisurely pace, together.

Time Travel: Greece, March 28-April 8

2007-05-05T04:31:00.000-07:00

Psakoudia

The tiny beachside village is cloaked in an atmosphere of quiet desolation. Thatch sun umbrellas are bundled up disassembled along the promenade in front of their respective resorts, and the curving expanse of brown sand is deserted and dotted with heaps of browning seaweed. There’s a chill in the air, an itinerant wind, and the clouded sky remains unwelcoming.

Psakoudia seems to be slowly waking up after a long slumber, straggling lethargically out of a winter’s hibernation. Shops and cafes keep erratic hours and locals trickle into the Café Paradise at noon for their morning coffee, unfurling newspapers tucked under their arms and spreading them across the bar. Conversation between proprietor and customers is jovial but indecipherable, the rhythmic rise and fall of Greek, the accents falling on unexpected syllables.

The whiny hum of power tools sporadically fills the air as repairs are made and the trappings of summer are reassembled. Preparations are performed with the methodicalness of routine.

The rush of tourists will first come after Easter, and their Western European imperialism will transform this place. Their presence lingers even now, in Roman-alphabeted street signs, in the anglicized names of the resorts and cafes, and in the shopkeepers greeting suspected foreigners in streams of German and English.

There’s a strange sense of intimacy about off-season Psakoudia, in these unoccupied months free of its resort veneer. It’s like witnessing a normally perfectly-coiffed movie star with her hair down, in the comfort of her own home. And voyeuristically watching while she languidly costumes herself, paints her face and plasters on her public persona.

Fridays

2007-05-04T14:48:00.000-07:00

A giggling trio of schoolgirls jounces along the sidewalk, chattering, gesticulating, jauntily toting their Schulransen -- boxy backpacks patterned in vivid calleidoscopes of neon and jumbles of prancing ponies, cuddly kittens and other fanciful designs, the pride and delight of school-going pre-adolescents.
Parting ways at the corner they pause to share last secrets and trickles of gossip and tauntingly announce their weekend plans.
A tinkling singsong rises above the others as one serves up the coup de grace: "I' fahr' zu meiner Oma!"*

It's Friday afternoon, when freedom and possibilities stretch tantalizingly over two days that loom limitless, a moment filled with the magic of anticipation, the innocent excitement and eagerness of childhood, and the warmth and comfort of a visit to Grandma.

*Translation: "I'm going to Grandma's!"

May Day

2007-05-03T04:48:00.000-07:00

The first of May is a double-sided holiday in Austria. Its origins trace back to ancient pagan tradition, Walpurgisnacht and celebrations of the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Christianity drove off the pagan roots and made May first, rather than the evening of April 30, the important holiday, but the celebrations are still purely secular. The central piece of the celebration is the may pole, the Maibaum, which starts as an actual tree in a forest somewhere that is cut down, stripped of branches and bark except for a few branches left at the very top. The pole is then usually carved with elaborate designs and erected in the center of town, the Hauptplatz. The most important criterion for Maibäume is, apparently, the height. The taller the better.

Once the may pole is erected, tradition dictates that a group of young men from a neighboring and rival village must attempt to steal it. I have never witnessed this event, as the places where I have lived in Austria are larger cities that have lost a little bit of their old ways and that, apparently, don't really have rivals. But I have heard that the stealing is quite common in smaller villages.

On May Day, it is typical to see people decked out in national costume and demonstrating traditional folk dances, literally dancing around the may pole. There is usually a brass band, or at least someone playing accordian, and some food booths set up offering beer, sausages, and other regional favorites.

At least that's how it was where I lived last year in the small town of Bruck an der Mur. I was delighted by the festivities, the costumes, the friendly and joyous atmosphere as everyone enjoyed the holiday. And yes, of course, like all official holidays in Austria, May 1 is a day when everything shuts down, not jsut government offices and schools, but stores are closed, as well. It's one of the idiosyncracies of life you get used ot in Austria after awhile, and you learn to stock up on groceries whenever a holiday lurks around the corner.

But as aforementioned, May Day is a double-sided holiday. Thanks to the Soviets, it took on a new meaning, the Tag der Arbeit, or Labor Day. Of course, there were movements of workers before Soviet control of Eastern Europe, and many people trace the connection between May 1 and labor to these movements and demonstrations, but the Soviet Union made it an official holiday, and although Austria was never Soviet controlled, it adopted the Tag der Arbeit, too. So May 1 has become an important socialist holiday, a day for demonstrations and protest marches in priase of socialism and demanding more rights for workers. It seems to have degenerated into a day of general political protest, actually.

Here in Graz I eagerly headed down to the Hauptplatz on the morning of May 1, expecting to see the kinds of fun-loving folksy traditions I had enjoyed the year before in Bruck, but I was sadly mistaken. Graz, as the second-largest city in Austria, likes to think of itself as incredibly modern and is often chracterized as being a hot-bed of socialism, and that claim seemed believable at the Hauptplatz on May 1. Sure, there was a May pole, but the SPÖ, the Austrian Socialist Party, had taken over and was having a huge rally, complete with red balloons and streamers, party paraphanelia, political propaganda speeches and a band playing, of all things, Tina Turner covers. There was also a parade of demonstraters, pockets of people from literally all walks of life marching along with banners anouncing and denouncing various causes. There were the requisite Che Guevara T-shirted scruffy students waving communist flags and proclaiming solidarity with Cuba as well as the anti-EU set who take any opportunity to voice their grievances, but there were also elderly folks marching along with help of canes, stroller-pushing parents, disinterested young kids, and head-scarved foreigners. The only unifying factor among these disparate groups was their discontent, and, perhaps, their hope for a better world.

A dying breed

2007-04-30T02:32:00.000-07:00

I saw the archetypical elderly Austrian woman while waiting for my train.

She is clad in stout gray woolen skirt and blazer accented with forest green collar and carved horn buttons, the accoutrements of Styrian Tracht, the native costume. Her spindly legs are covered in thick stockings and she shuffles up the stairs and onto the platform in sturdy, sensible black patent leather shoes. Her shockingly white hair is pulled back with a series of old-fashioned hair combs and coiled at the nape of her neck. A brimmed gray felt hat crowns her head, disguising the pink patches of scalp that shine through her thinning hair.

A closer look reveals a collared, checkered shirt and a thick hand-knit cardigan under the blazer, on a day when everyone around her has shed jackets and long-sleeves in favor of T-shirts and tanks and the air, even now after the sun has acquiesced to the night, holds a breath of comfortable warmth. Her outfit is one of propriety and tradition, old farmers' wisdom dictating that winter maintains its grip on the land until well into May and one should dress appropriately, prepared for that last lingering late April snowfall -- never mind that this unseasonably warm winter has long since banished the possibility of snow.

Yet no trace of overheating shows on her lined face, which could belong to a woman of 70 or even 80, though her twinkling blue eyes belie the mask of age foisted upon her by her wrinkles and white hair. She carefully removes the wicker basket from the crook of her arm and deposits it on an empty bench, but the leather straps of her weathered brown canvas rucksack remain on her shoulders as she slowly paces up and down the platform, stooped forward under its boxy weight. A curiousity, this aimless wandering along the near-empty platform, a good ten minutes before the train's arrival. Perhaps another dictum of traditional wisdom? One should stretch one's legs as much as possible before a journey by train?

As the train arrives, there is a flurry of action, a clamoring for the train portals, and the passengers follow an unwritten code and defer to the old woman, to allow her to be the first on the steep metal stairs to the interior, but with an even older unwritten code of etiquette she smiles and twinkles and insists that those before her gain first entry, waving them merrily up onto the train.

She is lost to me among the crowded compartments, and I am filled with a sense of melancholy. I know the generation that comes after her, and the one after that, and their eagerness to break with tradition and embrace the cultural conglomeration of the modern era. Denim and jersey cotton replaces Tracht. They regard her and her ways with the fondness one holds for grandmothers, a protective instinct bordering on patronizing. But do they value her? Will they follow in the footstpes of her clunky black shoes?

She is Austria, full of innocence and regalness, centuries of history and tradition, mountains and forests, snowy slopes and warm chalets, jaunty accordian polkas and the warm, slow burn of homemade schnapps. I fear she is a dying breed.

It starts...

2007-04-19T05:25:00.000-07:00

Why? Because I just felt inspired.... We'll see.